Frameless Poems

No More Mister Gneiss Guy

Geologists say ‘by your leave’,
we’re famously polite:
we wear our heart upon our sleeve,
rejoice at rhyolite.
We’re very patient people, but
I tolerated stuff before
that I’m not taking any more:
up with this I will not put.

Don’t bring to me your xenolith,
preposterous, fantastic:
I’m done with make-believe and myth:
my ire is pyroclastic.
Don’t tell me pressure makes a gem,
discomfort forges what’s sublime:
the aimless drip of frameless time
creates a speleothem.

Some things improve with age, it’s true,
while others just feel dated:
to sleight of hand, to me and you,
I’m simply indurated.
I’m wise to every move you make –
I’m distanced from your wiles,
meanders, stratagems and smiles -
a placid oxbow lake.

How To Be Human

It is never too late to become human,
to see reality and your place within it
not as a perceived world
or a conceptual reality
but as it is.

When you have risen from all thoughts of self
and awakened to the true nature of things
you will be just as human as the Buddha was.

Nothing in creation is inconsequential,
everything before you and after you
is you arriving – you happening.

See nothing as apart from your mind;
that empty thoughtless mind,
that Consciousness.
then a frameless window
will open in your mindfulness,
a perfect all seeing vision
of the ALL.

Frameless a Freed Verse

FRAMELESS
materialised
 from  shadows
diluted
  sonorities
evoke
a
muffled
montage
as
prelude
 drifting
 through a
world half-awake
 on a
promenade
of  reverie

images faded
turned
& relinquish
 identity
in a flux
of folly
 in memory in
 deluged
apocalypse
of
multisensory
 tsunami
of
spectacular
 optimism

Nothing Moves But Mind

Outside and elsewhere
existence is a leaf on a deep blue river;
a long night has set it free to bob and tumble
as an upturned mirror caught in the gray rays
of an obscure sun.

I listen to the heartbeat of a giant turtle;
the soundless pulse of a mind roaming away from itself.

At such times, a body of flesh becomes a body of work,
an opus of all that can be held
between a left and right handedness.

Nothing has a name here, all anchors are cut,
the black cat of thought
leaves no pawprint upon the inner eye.

Somewhere, now buried in a silvered dew,
the world at large has shrunk beneath the gravity of its own presence.
On the surface of all seen things faces are bereft of identity.

Home seems far away,
a place where an awakening ghost waits for its own arrival.

All the works of a self-creating oeuvre are naming themselves ‘home’
but ‘home’ knows nothing of any journeys made between
these disinherited regions.

From behind a cloud of nowhere a frameless door swings open;
nothing enters, yet All That Ever Was steps out
to greet it.

Narrow Times

At one time,
(a time so broad
that it knew no ownership),
at one time
the world was wide,
there were no nations, no distinctions
just naked humans in a well clothed landscape.

Then came the thought of ‘race.’
The hunter gatherers became farmers
they built walled cities
and every wall was a demarcation.
The actual clothes they wore
became a status symbol,
and so the poor had to feed the wealthy
and the wealthy owned the poor.

The earth began to fracture
most of the sparsely populated wide open
became the over-populated narrows.
Until one side of a street
was at war with the other side.

Hunter gathers still existed
but they lived on the margins
they survived
only by the consent
of the people crowded into the narrows.

If they really tried to be naked and free
the narrow people
would make TV shows about them,
pretty soon
they also become narrow images
moving inside a picture frame place
that once was frameless.

Sole Expedition of My Soul Exposition

SOLE EXPEDITION OF MY SOUL EXPOSITION  

Your sole expedition
of my soul exposition:
Day and night falls, 
My thought calls, 
Flushed faced as staring walls,
Vizarded like blinking dolls, 
Frightened fixed eyeballs, 
And my frameless vision,
Was your passionless passion;
Fulfilling your heartbreaking mission; 
Left me motionless, lolls,
The envisioned progress annuls.
You've got the balls
To step in & cause multiple falls
Of my hearten edifice,
Wreck it all to my greatest surprise,
Breached my barrier with such guts, 
your balm was my hurt,
Now I am left strut,
Alone, devoured and stuck 
To sit here in huge shock 
As you walk the solitary walk. 

Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© 28th December, 2020. 
#OnTheSpotPoetry #inspirationbymuse

Pentimenti Fade

The West is slipping away.
On the East side of this living space
light slips its shadowy leash,
paints a last frameless image
upon a bare wall.

Moving closer
I study a shape as it shifts slightly
while an unseen sun
shoulders the earth again.

If I squint it might be the face
of a friend. I look for fever,
the hollow-eyed recognition of death -
no it’s not her death mask
this is before the last breath arrived
a momentary representation
before her fade out.

I had assumed it was light
playing upon a surface
but see that the East has leached out again,
and it can cross the world
and travel time
arriving always before
the impatient night.

Sole Expedition

SOLE EXPEDITION

Night falls,
Thought calls,
Staring walls
like blinking dolls,
Fixed eyeballs,
Frameless vision
but ageless mission;
Motionless, lolls,
Progress annuls,
Full empty halls,
Alone & stuck
to walk
the solitary walk.

VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 13th May, 2020.

The Oil Soft Yoke

The Oil Soft Yoke

Alas, the contest sponsors do expound
on how to sail your craft, and where it’s bound
thus must the muse-less vessels get in line
wander straight and never serpentine

for hearts are frail and distant widows peak
still hear cold vagrant cries of those who seek
a passage to a new world without rules
to build their frameless houses without tools.

And yet we stand in awe at castle gates
to view the masterpieces of the greats
ignore the splintered floors that bow and creak
believe the feather strong, the broadsword weak.

Embrace the furrowed rows, the oil soft yoke
for poetry when written ain’t no joke..


©12/24/2019

STRAND SPECIAL 8

Aerobat On a Summer Day

Draw on frameless blue
lines from the power and pull
of my wings in air.

Carol Nye Rhoades Robinson By Kathrine Nash Rhoades

NATURE based on the Portrait No. 2 of Carol Nye Rhoades (Robinson) by Kathrine Nash Rhoades (1915) – (Edited by Debbi Guzzi

My feet, my feet chilled to the bone, 
as I sit, sitting here alone. 

Sharpening itself, the wind embraced, 
Slicing a piece of me, starting at my face, 
Think not of cold, only hot, I say. 
Now, I can’t move, can’t move, can’t you see, 
the coldness of the wind’s gotten the best of me. 

The frameless skies at my back, 
embraces me for more of to come 
as Winter will turn to Spring. 

My feet, my feet aching to the bone
as I sit, sitting here alone.

THIS ENDING WAS INADVERTENTLY OMITTED WHEN SUBMITTED (NOT EDITED)

Sharpening itself, the storm embraced,
Slicing a piece of me, starting at my face,
Think not of wet, only dry.
Now I can’t move, can’t move, can’t you see, 
The influence of the storm’s gotten the best of me;

A new season calls once again, Winter to Spring, then Summer to Fall, everlasting love on my face bares it all.

Splashed

Amid once roseates mirroristic muse borne reflections ~

Images now manifesting themselves inside the dampened blink of time to find

But a bitter root spawning within jestives mocking mist touching it all....

A hearts turning unto the tainteds brushed in such bluish black?!

Shades encumbering frameless days to impede silent breath

Cast into the haze caught afore solitudes sight; this

Charcoaled aneath grays changling canvas tracing dreams; tampered thoughts....

Dreamt upon an empty palette; stilled, by these quietus hands!?

Turning unto jaded an emerald forest of loves hopes risen from

Innocent visions bearing light awakened so very deeply inside ~

Stigmatized, while gazing into the divertive face of autumns newest moon....

Piercing this glass formed in silver made hues; shadows etching royalistic palms left

Waiting for a mornings dew dipped colours to someday soon, reappear?!

Renewing what has been stolen; mingling betwixt the blood of, red laced sins

****************************************************************

...."Splashed" ~

Missing Pieces

missing sides to my portrait lady

  blessings in time turn under a 
  spyglass bewilderment

absent the clues round your 
seamless skin. 
and the light seems to reflect 
unbroken along the borders
 of your garments grace. 

 my darkened lady with flowers 
of chalk draws in the night a
 purple hewed silhoete to carry
 her hearts desire.

 quick as fiber optic resin in a fable

 and i am as a moth drawn to your
 flickering candlelit eyelids.

  how can i make these hands
 form.. fit....flaunt and flicker 
into your frameless innocence.

 how can these words consume 
all placid enigmas.

 teach me how to nurture this faith
 between the missing corners  
 and are abstact angels will 
 be whole again.

Brothers

Dreams of brothers
Visiting frameless picture
As I hold all once with love of calm
Unspoken silence betray to me in birth

Spike of trees to be shine left to touch aching shoulder
When all comeback make it surreal in simple gatherings
A simple knock or a bell in steps of my door
Cake and cider are always in table
Waiting to be haunt in knights of silence

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